


Good Fortune

by platonic_boner



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonic_boner/pseuds/platonic_boner
Summary: Arthur makes Merlin a lord, and Merlin does an astonishingly good job of running a village.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 1337
Collections: WIP Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [annathecrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annathecrow), who did the amazing art throughout this fic!! She also made an awesome book cover, which you can see [here](https://annathecrow.dreamwidth.org/25100.html).
> 
> Also, thanks to [ironic_boner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironic_boner) for betaing, as always!

Merlin walks into Arthur’s rooms and stops in his tracks. Arthur is standing, half-dressed but armed with a sword, over an unconscious man. His shoulders rise and fall dramatically as he catches his breath.

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Lady Gertrude’s assassins found you, then.”

Arthur whirls around. “You _knew_ about this?”

“Er,” Merlin says, partly because that was very accusatory and he’s not sure how to respond, and partly because shirtless, dishevelled Arthur is very distracting. (Merlin usually avoids getting too flustered by keeping his eyes to himself, but he couldn't stop himself from checking Arthur out to make sure he wasn't hurt, and now he's having a hard time looking away.)

“Why didn’t you _say something_?” Arthur demands.

Merlin hadn't said anything because he had a plan to deal with the assassins himself. He didn't expect them to make a move this morning, or he would've done something much sooner. He's a little terrified by how close they got to killing Arthur.

He can't say any of that to Arthur, though.

“Well, you see, sire,” he says. “I played the whole thing over in my head. ‘Arthur, someone’s trying to kill you. It’s Lady Gertrude.’ ‘Merlin, how dare you make such accusations about a noble! Never speak of this again!’ So then I decided there was really no point in telling you.”

“Right,” Arthur says distractedly. “How many assassins did you say there were again?”

“Just two.”

It occurs to Merlin that there’s only one unconscious man on the floor. At the same time he thinks this, Arthur whips a dagger out from under the pillow on his bed and throws it very quickly at approximately Merlin’s head. Merlin freezes, and the dagger whistles past his ear and thwacks disgustingly into someone just over his shoulder.

Merlin and Arthur stare at each other for a long moment.

“Call the guards to deal with the bodies,” Arthur finally orders. “And if you hear of something like this again…”

He trails off, presumably because he realizes that ordering Merlin to tell him about it would go against the “honourable” rule where Merlin can’t speak ill of anyone whose bloodline is fancier than his. Merlin smirks.

“Maybe you should change the rule where I can’t accuse nobles of things, sire,” he suggests.

Arthur’s eyes light up and he returns Merlin’s smirk with one of his own. It makes Merlin unaccountably nervous.

“Maybe I will,” Arthur says.

Arthur spends the entire rest of the morning holed up with Geoffrey. Merlin paces.

Arthur’s still got that nerve-racking smirk on when he comes out.

“Here,” Arthur says, handing Merlin a roll of parchment. “You’re now the Lord of Rue’s Village. It’s a tiny little place and you’ll get basically nothing from the taxes, but next time someone’s planning my assassination, you will _tell me_.”

Merlin’s too busy staring at the parchment to pay much attention to details like taxation. It looks much like the one he forged that time for Lancelot, but this one has a different seal and Merlin’s name on it. And isn’t a forgery.

Merlin’s gotten used to living in a castle and rubbing elbows with royalty all day, and he’s never exactly had any particular awe for nobility - as Arthur could certainly tell you - but this still seems like it should belong in someone else’s life. Farmboys from Ealdor don’t become nobles. This just _doesn’t happen._

“Are you serious?” Merlin demands.

“Entirely.”

“You can’t just give me a village! I don’t know how to be a lord!”

“You’ve watched me for years. That’s more preparation than some lords get.”

“Whose land are you trying to give me? Isn’t some lord going to be mad that I’ve taken a piece of his land?”

“It was my land, Merlin. It was seized during the purge since the old lord was a sorcerer, and it became crown land. It would’ve gone to one of my younger children as inheritance, eventually, but honestly it’s so pitifully small they’d be insulted. It’s yours. You can’t say no. Now, would you like a couple days off to go introduce yourself to your people?”

Merlin gapes at him, then finally manages to say, “Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Excellent. Off you go, then.”

Merlin pauses at the door. This all seems like an elaborate joke Arthur is playing on him, somehow, and he wants to get in the last word.

Oh, and if Merlin’s not going to be around to protect him, Arthur actually does really need to be told about this.

“Sire?”

“Yes, Merlin?”

“You should probably know that Sir Bors is planning your demise.”

Merlin takes Lancelot with him to visit his village. ( _His village._ That’s just strange. And wrong.) It's a little over a day's ride. Merlin spends the entire first day picturing how terrible he's going to be at being responsible for an entire village of people, and tormenting himself with worst case scenarios. What if they're overrun by bandits? What if all the crops fail and the people starve and it's all Merlin's fault? What if there's a plague?

They make camp at night. After a fairly quiet supper - Merlin's not really sure what Lancelot was talking about, and he thinks he mostly grunted in reply - Merlin frowns into their fire and his anxious thoughts come back.

Lancelot sits down next to him and gives him a nudge, friendly but rough enough to bump him out of his thoughts.

“You're going to do fine,” he says.

Merlin makes a face, because that's obviously not true. “This is all a joke,” he says. “I have no idea what I'm doing, and an entire village is going to suffer for it.”

“The fact that you _care_ that people will suffer is what will make you good at this,” Lancelot says. “You don't have to be perfect, Merlin - in fact, you won't be. But as long as you're trying to help - and I know you will - you'll be better than most.”

Merlin’s not sure he believes that. After all, Uther thought _he_ was trying to help, didn’t he? But he appreciates the effort.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Lancelot smiles and squeezes his shoulder. “Now, get some sleep,” he says. “You want to look nice when you meet your people, don’t you?”

They arrive mid-morning.

Merlin starts getting a bad feeling as they near the village. The farmhouses in the outskirts are large but rundown. The farmlands are unpleasantly brown, not green, and the few cows and sheep roaming about look much thinner than they should be.

In the village itself - which is rundown and dusty - they dismount to get a better look at things.

“This place has certainly seen better days,” Lancelot comments.

“That it has.” The voice belongs to a short, stout woman stepping out from an inn on the right of the road. Like most of the buildings here, it’s a nice structure, but in poor repair and with faded, peeling paint. Likewise, the woman’s dress is old and patched.

She curtseys. “My lord. Sir knight.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Merlin stutters. “I’m just …” He pauses, then realizes that explaining that he’s a farmwoman’s son and this is Arthur’s idea of a joke is probably a bad idea.

Lancelot smiles and covers for Merlin’s confusion. “I’m Lancelot, and this is Lord Merlin. And you?”

“Mary, my lord,” she says.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Merlin says. “I was hoping someone might be able to take us on a tour of the village.”

“I’d be honoured,” Mary says.

“I don’t want to interrupt your work!” Merlin says quickly, imagining her telling all his villagers about his high-handed ways, and them hating him immediately.

“No trouble, my lord,” Mary says. “My daughter’s more than old enough to run the inn without me.”

Merlin smiles tentatively. “Then we’d be happy to have you as a guide.”

Mary turns out to be an excellent guide. With Lancelot encouraging her, she opens up and tells them all the local news. Most of it, unfortunately, isn’t _good_ news; it’s about businesses closing and farms failing and illnesses spreading. While Mary also describes the villagers’ efforts to help the affected families, it’s still very discouraging. 

The village itself is also discouraging. They pass several dry wells, and the buildings don’t look any better as they move farther into the village.

They pass a schoolhouse half-filled with thin children, and Merlin pauses at the window to watch the class. It looks like only the youngest children are here; Merlin can guess that all the children who are old enough to be of any use are working, their educations cut short.

“The teacher is one of our local girls, Anne,” Mary says. “She does her best – they all learn to write their names and do their sums, at least.”

Merlin leans forward to take a closer look around the single room. “Do they have any books?” he asks, even though it’s pretty clear there aren’t any.

When Mary shakes her head, he smiles at her and tells Lancelot, “Remind me to steal some of Arthur’s nursery rhymes. He’s a little beyond those now.”

They also visit the local physician, who has few supplies and too many patients. The physician is busy tending to an old woman, who looks almost too weak to swallow the medicine he’s giving her. A farmer, with an arm that’s dripping blood, is waiting for his turn. Merlin jumps in to sew up his cut.

“Not bad,” the physician says, when he finally has a break and comes to examine Merlin’s work. “And who are you, son?”

“Merlin. I’m apprenticing under Gaius, the royal physician,” Merlin explains.

“Oh? And what’s brought you to our poor little village?”

“He’s the new lord,” Mary says drily.

Merlin flushes, realizing he maybe should have led with that.

“Could you show me around?” Merlin asks the physician. “If there’s anything you need, I can try to bring supplies on my next visit.”

“There isn’t anything we _don’t_ need,” the physician says.

As he takes Merlin around the small hospital, Merlin brushes his hands over the medical supplies, pulsing magic into them to increase their potency. Gaius always complains when Merlin does that, because it leads to knights healing too fast and asking awkward questions, but Merlin doubts anyone here will complain.

Of the patients, the old woman and a toddler appear to be worst off. Merlin sits at each of their bedsides and talks to them for a few minutes - and then, when the physician isn’t watching, takes their hands and does what he can for them. He can only ease the old woman’s pain, but he burns away the toddler’s infection - he’ll be fine after a night’s rest.

Merlin stumbles when he stands - he hadn’t realized how much energy he’d just spent. He isn’t used to doing so much magic, all at once.

Lancelot catches him.

“Will the boy be all right?” he asks quietly.

Merlin nods. “He will now.”

They continue their tour. The next time Mary mentions that a well they’re passing has run dry, Merlin rolls up his sleeves and nudges Lancelot. 

“Can you make a distraction?” he asks Lancelot quietly, already settling his hands on the edges of the well.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lancelot asks, equally quietly.

“You were right. I’m their lord; I’m supposed to take care of them.”

“I didn’t mean you had to fix everything in a single day,” Lancelot says. “Or risk yourself to do it.”

Merlin knows that, but Lancelot had looked at those thin children and the ailing patients just like Merlin had. This village is poor, and while the people are doing their best, and seem to genuinely be trying to take care of each other with what they have, it’s not enough.

“I’m not going to stand by and do nothing when I can help,” Merlin says.

Lancelot nods in understanding and turns to Mary. “I saw a few young lads lurking around the corner, staring at my sword,” he says. “Could you introduce me? Perhaps they’d like to learn a few tricks.”

Left alone, Merlin closes his eyes and focuses on the well. He doesn’t know a spell for this, but all he needs to do is move the land around until the well floods with water - how hard can that be?

The ground beneath him rumbles as he works. Stones and earth shift below him, making way for the water deep in the earth. Merlin feels it flow into the deepened well.

Perfect.

Merlin glances over at Lancelot and Mary. They’ve got nearly a dozen teenage boys and girls lined up with sticks, learning basic drills. Although Mary hasn’t mentioned it yet, Merlin imagines this village isn’t immune to the sort of bandits that Ealdor often encountered. Camelot is safer, due to Arthur’s influence, but stamping out bandits entirely remains impossible. Any training Lancelot gives them will do them good.

It also provides an excellent distraction for Merlin to slip away.

He deepens the other two dry wells. He finds where the village hunters store their bows, and enchants their arrows to fly true. He walks through the farmers’ fields, and pulses life and fertility into the soil.

It’s not _nearly_ enough, but it’s a start.

“You look exhausted,” Lancelot says, when he meets Merlin that night in front of Merlin’s manor.

(Merlin’s _manor_.)

“You should go inside,” Merlin says. “The rain’ll start any minute.”

“Rain?” Lancelot says. “Doesn’t look like it. They haven’t had proper rain in weeks.”

Merlin turns his face to the sky, and a drop falls squarely on his forehead. His grin is interrupted by a yawn, but if it helps these people, it’s worth it.

The next day, Merlin walks through the village again. This time, he does his best to meet everyone, instead of avoiding them as he works his magic.

It’s odd having everyone bow and curtsy, and call him milord; Merlin doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. The people are kind and respectful, and delighted to report that their once-dry wells hold water again and that they’ll have enough food for the winter after all.

“You’ve been very good luck,” Mary tells him.

Merlin laughs. “I’m glad I could help.”

“It’d be nice some of that luck could visit the Millers, out in that blue farmhouse,” Mary says, pointing the way. “Their only horse turned its ankle this morning, and they’re hoping it’s nothing too serious.”

“Well, I don’t know much about horses,” Merlin says. “But I’ll visit them and see if there’s anything I can do.”

Merlin spends several more days in the village, pouring his magic into the earth and the buildings and the people. And even some animals, because that horse wouldn’t’ve walked again if Merlin hadn’t done _something_.

“I should get back to Camelot,” he says regretfully when he’s eating supper in Mary’s inn, after his fifth day in the village. “Arthur’s probably already got himself into at least one near-death situation.”

“We’ll get on all right without you,” Mary says cheerfully. “After all the good luck you’ve brought us, I think we’ll do just fine this year.”

Lancelot gives Merlin a pointed look, but Merlin’s not going to be scolded for doing what he can for his people. Besides, nobody’s given him so much as a suspicious look.

“I’ll travel back to Camelot with you, but then I think I’ll return to Rue’s Village with Percival and Elyan,” Lancelot says. “The young warriors I’ve been working with have promise, but they need some more training before they’ll be much of a defense against bandits.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, touched.

Lancelot smiles at him. “Your people are my people too,” he says.

When Merlin returns, it’s late at night, but he passes by Arthur’s room to check if he needs anything. There’s a faint flickering of light from under the door, so Merlin goes in to find Arthur sitting in front of his fire.

“Have a good time?” Arthur asks. He's got a new bandage on one arm. 

Merlin grits his teeth and wonders who, or what, tried to kill Arthur this time. He refuses to think about how close they got, or about how he’d feel if Arthur died while Merlin wasn’t around to protect him.

“Yes, and I'm going back in a month,” Merlin says. “Every month, actually.”

He isn't sure how he expected Arthur to respond to his request - well, demand, really - for this unprecedented amount of time off, but Arthur actually looks kind of pleased.

“Of course,” Arthur says, and Merlin revises that thought - he looks _proud_. “I told you you’d be a good lord.”

“At least I won’t be as much of a prat as _some_ people,” Merlin says.

“See,” Arthur says, grinning broadly, “You _can_ talk to me like that now, because we’re peers. Almost.”

“...That’s going to take all the fun out of it,” Merlin complains.

“Really?” Arthur asks. “If I’d known it would make you stop insulting me, I’d’ve made you a lord _ages_ ago.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I was going to _stop_.”

Arthur smiles and shakes his head in the disbelieving way he still does sometimes when Merlin talks back to him, even though you would’ve thought he’d’ve gotten used to it by now. Merlin gets it - despite what Arthur claims his new rank means, none of Camelot’s nobles actually _do_ talk to Arthur like Merlin does. Merlin’s the only person who dares insult him like this - or maybe the only one who loves him obviously enough that Arthur _lets_ him insult him, because he knows Merlin never means it.

Merlin smiles back at him helplessly. Despite his initial reaction to being a lord, he’d enjoyed exploring the village and helping his new people - but it’s good to be home. And despite the fact that he now has his very own manor, home is definitely still the castle, and Arthur. 

“It’s really a great village,” Merlin says, taking a seat next to Arthur and launching into an enthusiastic description of Rue’s Village.

Arthur interrupts him after a few minutes to say, “I _have_ been there, Merlin, I know it’s just a rundown hovel,” but then he adds, “Get us something to drink, if you’re going to keep talking my ear off.”

Merlin beams and trots across the room to grab some wine, and then sits back down to keep talking. 

The wine, the fire, and Arthur’s company combine to make Merlin very warm, and he’s still a little worn out from all the magic he’s been using. This is Merlin’s excuse for why he soon falls asleep mid-sentence.

He wakes up late the next morning, tucked into Arthur’s bed. Arthur’s nowhere to be seen, so Merlin doesn’t bother to hide his smile at the realization that Arthur must've carried him to bed.

He also doesn't bother to get up right away. He lazes for so long, enjoying Arthur's soft mattress and the faint scent of him on the pillows, that Arthur comes back and catches him still in his bed.

Merlin grins at him sheepishly, expecting Arthur to be annoyed that he's spent the entire morning sleeping instead of doing his job, but Arthur - though he's kind of staring - doesn't actually look displeased at all.

Well. Maybe he missed Merlin, too. 

Merlin returns to Rue’s Village every month to visit his people and sink more magic into the ground. It soaks it up like a sponge, but it feels a little less thirsty each time, like it’s becoming healthy land in its own right. Which is good, because it’s _exhausting_ feeding that much power into the earth.

Merlin knows visiting his village is the right thing to do, and he genuinely likes helping his people, but it still feels wrong to leave Arthur's side so frequently. Arthur would be dead at _least_ twenty times over if Merlin hadn't been protecting him all these years, and what if something happens when Merlin isn't there? So, in between his trips to Rue's Village, Merlin spends hours reading about defensive enchantments and then applying them throughout the castle, until the drapes and the stones and the very ground the castle stands on will rise up to protect him, if need be.

There's a small incident where a tree attacks Gwaine when he knocks Arthur down in training, and Arthur makes fun of Merlin when he catches him whispering to a suit of armour, but otherwise, Merlin thinks this was a pretty good idea.

Other than being away more frequently, Merlin’s role as Arthur’s servant doesn’t change much now that he’s a lord.

Arthur doesn’t make Merlin muck out his stables or do any other similarly disgusting tasks anymore, but when Merlin points this out, Arthur scoffs and says, “I haven’t made you do that for ages.” Merlin pauses and thinks back, and it’s true: it’s been at least a year since he’s had to deal with horseshit. Well, _literal_ horseshit, anyways.

Arthur does let him complain more about other nobles, now that Merlin is one; at one point he frowns when Merlin mentions the insult a visiting knight gave him, and says, “You should challenge him for that.”

“He’s a _knight_ , Arthur,” Merlin says. And then, “Wait, can I pick a champion to fight him for me?”

“I’m the king, Merlin,” Arthur says. “I can’t take sides in nobles’ duels.”

“Well, I didn’t mean _you_ ,” Merlin says, even though he’d absolutely been dreamily picturing Arthur fighting that asshole on his behalf. “I think I’d pick Gwaine.”

Arthur flushes and scowls, probably because he’s still sore about Gwaine beating him in training yesterday.

Another - absolutely shocking - change is that Arthur actually asks him for _advice_ on occasion.

It starts with Merlin challenging Arthur on some of his policies, which Merlin spends a lot more time thinking about now that they directly influence him and his people. Arthur acknowledges that he has good points and actually debates with him, listening to Merlin’s arguments and considering them as carefully as he does with his advisors.

The first time Arthur asks, “What would you advise?” - about whether Camelot should supply grain to several villages whose crops have failed, or save their already low stores for a greater emergency - Merlin is torn. On one hand, he knows he should just answer Arthur's request for advice like it's no big deal, rather than embarrassing Arthur so much he never asks again. On the _other_ hand…

Merlin asks, grinning gleefully, “I'm sorry, sire, could you repeat that?”

Arthur throws a nearby sock at his face. 

Merlin ignores that, and keeps going. “See, sire, this is why you're such a great king: you listen to what smarter people tell you to do.”

“Well, I'm not going to listen to you now.”

“No, wait!” Merlin says, regretting his choice to mock already.

“Too late. You shouldn't have been so difficult about it,” Arthur says.

“Okay, _fine_ , sorry, let me try again,” Merlin says.

Arthur, surprisingly, actually does let him try again, and then ends up listening to Merlin's advice. He doesn't quite take all of it, but he speaks with Merlin like they're equals, with all the respect Merlin usually assures himself Arthur definitely feels for him but doesn't often actually see, and Merlin hadn’t thought this was possible, but he falls even more in love with him.

The spring and summer go by quickly, and then, shortly after harvest time, two trunks of gold are delivered to Gaius’ rooms, with Merlin’s name on them.

It takes him several moments to realize these are his taxes, and then he has to sit down.

He owns _two. Trunks._ Of _gold_.

They’re fairly small trunks, but _still_.

“This is ridiculous,” Merlin mutters. What is he supposed to do with this much gold?

He stands up. To start with, he’s not _keeping_ it. He’s not the one who worked for this gold. He put in a little bit of magic, but all of the villagers put in an entire year’s worth of work. This is _their_ gold.

Still, he’s not _quite_ sure where to go from here, but he knows exactly who to ask - Arthur had to deal with this every year before he gave the village to Merlin, right? He must know what to do with it.

So, Merlin brings Arthur his breakfast and then sits down at the table across from him.

Arthur looks at him in mild surprise. “You’re not usually so insubordinate this early in the morning.”

“I got my taxes today,” Merlin says. 

“Awww,” Arthur says, smirking. “You’re like a real little lord now! How does it feel?”

Merlin kicks him under the table. “What am I supposed to _do_ with the taxes?”

Arthur shrugs. “Buy yourself a new shirt?” he suggests, with a pointed glance at the very poor mending job Merlin’s done on the one he’s currently wearing.

Merlin huffs. “That doesn’t seem fair. I hardly did any work to earn that money - it’s the villagers who did everything. I don’t want to spend it on myself.”

Arthur’s smirk turns into a genuine smile. “You really are a good lord, Merlin. Better than most of my lords, actually.”

“I don’t know if that’s saying much,” Merlin says. “But thank you.”

“Hmm,” Arthur says thoughtfully. “The farmland there is terrible, right? It would help if people had options other than farming. You could give it to the school, or help pay for some of the young people to apprentice to tradesmen in the neighbouring villages - help them learn a skill that means they don’t have to depend on the land.”

“That’s brilliant,” Merlin says. “Yeah, I’ll do that. And - do you think building a road through the woods to the north would help, so they can travel more easily to trade with the town?”

Rue’s Village is only a few miles away from a larger town to the north, but it takes a full day to travel there, because the existing road winds a large circle around the impassable woods. 

Arthur laughs. “Merlin, you may have more gold than you’ve ever had in your life, but it is still _not_ enough gold to build a road.”

“...Oh,” Merlin says. He has no idea how expensive road-building is. It can’t be _that_ much, can it? He has entire _trunks_ of gold.

Arthur nudges his foot under the table. “This is a very good thing you’re doing, Merlin,” he says softly. “You’re doing right by your people.”

Merlin smiles back, his heart warmed by the praise. “I learned it from watching you.”

“You can’t have,” Arthur says. “I learned it from you.”

“Nah,” Merlin says, even though he can’t quite hide how much the words make him glow inside. “You’re not that bad, really; I just remind you not to be a prat sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, and there’s something very warm and intense in his eyes. “You do.”

As Arthur suggested, Merlin gives the school enough money to buy plenty of non-stolen books and pens and paper, and hires a real teacher.

He creates a scholarship program, in which he’ll find and pay for apprenticeships in whatever craft his villagers want to learn, as long as they’ll come back to the village to practice their craft for at least a few years after they’ve mastered it.

He also pays for a road to be built, because it turns out it’s Arthur who has no concept of how much you can buy with two trunks of gold.

Mary claps him on the back and calls him a good lad.

Arthur thrusts a bundle of cloth at Merlin and says, “Here. Since you threw away your taxes.”

Merlin unbundles it to find… a new shirt, like Arthur had suggested he buy himself. It’s a nice dark purple and softer than any of the shirts Merlin owns, but mostly Merlin likes it because Arthur just gave him a present. 

“Awww,” he says.

“Shut up,” Arthur says.

“Thank you, sire,” Merlin says.

Merlin wears his new shirt a few days later. 

On his way to Arthur’s chambers, he passes a couple maids who each take a long second look at him and then exchange glances with each other, giggling. Merlin looks down at the shirt suspiciously, but there’s nothing wrong with it that he can see. Is there something on his face?

He’s relieved to see Gwaine coming down the corridor towards him, and beckons Gwaine over.

“Is there something wrong with me?” Merlin asks him in an undertone.

“Absolutely not,” Gwaine says. “Did Arthur hurt your feelings? Do you want me to beat him up for you?”

Merlin laughs. “Thanks, but I mean – those girls keep looking at me and laughing.” Merlin nods surreptitiously towards the girls, who have – alarmingly – doubled in number and are still giggling.

“ _Oh_ ,” Gwaine says, and turns and waves at them. The giggling intensifies. “They’re not laughing at you.”

“Then why are they giggling?” Merlin asks, not really believing him.

“Same reason they always giggle at me – because you look hot. Nice shirt, by the way,” Gwaine says.

“Uh,” Merlin says, “Thanks.”

“Want to go talk to our admirers?” Gwaine asks.

“Nope,” Merlin says. “They’re all yours.”

Merlin’s mostly done blushing by the time he gets to Arthur’s rooms. Admittedly, the shirt fits a little better than most of his other clothes, and - if he does say so himself - he fills it out well. He still wasn’t expecting that kind of reaction.

When he wakes Arthur up, Arthur _also_ takes a long look at him. Merlin’s used to Arthur taking a while before he starts acting like a real person in the mornings, sometimes, so he just goes about his morning tasks of opening the curtains and setting out Arthur’s clothes and breakfast. 

Arthur’s still staring when he’s done, although he looks away hastily, cheeks going red, when Merlin catches him at it.

How has Merlin never noticed this before? Arthur’s attracted to him.

It takes Merlin by surprise enough that he doesn’t say anything in the moment, just flushing red himself and returning to his work, but he keeps thinking about it later.

Merlin’s been in love with Arthur basically forever and never expected anything would come of it - but why _can’t_ he ask Arthur out if Arthur likes him? Especially since Merlin’s technically a noble now, so he’s not impossibly far below Arthur’s station.

Merlin screws up his courage and decides he’ll say something. Soon.

Overnight, Merlin starts doubting himself. _Is_ he even a real noble? He actually does feel like a lord sometimes, now that he’s been looking after his village for almost a year, and it hasn’t gone terribly yet. But he’s not sure other nobles feel the same way – do they still think he’s a joke? Is it ridiculous that he’s thinking of trying to court the king? 

Which is how, after several false starts, Merlin ends up opening on, “So, do other people think I’m a noble now?”

Arthur, understandably, asks, “What does that mean?”

Merlin curses himself for that terrible beginning, but decides that now he’s started, he has to keep going or he’ll never work up the courage for this again. 

“Well, say I wanted to court a noble. Would they just laugh at me?” he asks.

Arthur goes suddenly still and lays his pen down on his desk. He gives Merlin a look that Merlin can’t really read. Is it dismay at the idea that Merlin is thinking of trying to court someone else? Merlin hopes so.

After a moment, Arthur smirks almost normally and says, “You are pretty laughable in general. But as long as you’re not trying to court an heiress or a conservative, I’d say you have a fraction of a chance.”

“Good,” Merlin says. “And how do nobles court each other?”

Arthur shrugs. “You know, give them flowers and little presents, take them on rides or picnics - you’ll probably have to deal with a chaperone if it’s a girl you’re courting.”

“Cool,” Merlin says. “So, do you want to go on a picnic?”

If he weren’t so nervous, Merlin would probably laugh at Arthur’s face. His dismay – Merlin’s pretty sure it was dismay – clears up, giving way to a comical expression of delighted surprise. Merlin would take that as a _yes_ , except then Arthur clears his throat and frowns.

“You can’t court _me_ ,” he says.

“You’re not an heiress or a conservative,” Merlin argues, because he’s pretty sure Arthur doesn’t actually want to say no to him.

“No, but I’m your employer,” Arthur says. “I’m in a position of power. I can’t – it would be inappropriate. I never want you to feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to do – ”

Merlin interrupts him there, trying not to laugh. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. When have I _ever_ done _anything_ you pressured me to do?”

“Well…” Arthur starts, and then trails off – presumably because he can’t think of a single example.

“Is that your only objection?” Merlin asks.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “I do like you, Merlin, but – ”

“Good,” Merlin interrupts again. “We’re going on a picnic.”

“We’re not going on a picnic.”

“Oh?” Merlin says. “I didn’t think it was very high class to jump into bed on the first date, but I’m down if you are.”

Arthur, despite his objections, looks very interested in that proposition. Merlin grins at him, and Arthur blushes.

He stutters, “I’m not – that is, I’m flattered, but – Propriety – ”

Merlin snorts, because Arthur’s never even used the word propriety before in his life, let alone cared about it. Merlin really doubts he cares about it now, either, and while he appreciates that Arthur didn’t want to pressure him – it’s sweet, really – it’s completely unnecessary since Merlin loves him back.

Arthur’s still trying to explain why Merlin can’t proposition him, and he doesn’t seem like he’s planning to stop any time soon, so Merlin crosses the room to Arthur’s desk.

“Stand up,” he says softly.

Arthur doesn’t object to Merlin telling him what to do like he normally would; he just gets up. Merlin steps a bit closer to him.

“If you really don’t want me to kiss you, you should say so,” he says.

Arthur just silently meets his eyes. Merlin reads overwhelming warmth and affection in Arthur’s eyes. Arthur is, for once, not bothering to hide how much he loves Merlin. It’s a good thing Arthur doesn’t say anything, because Merlin really needs to kiss him right now.

He wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and pulls him in. 

Courting Arthur is pretty great. They do go on that picnic – eventually – and Merlin follows through on the rest of Arthur’s suggestions, including the flowers.

“You do realize I assumed it was a girl when I said you should give flowers to your little crush,” Arthur says, upon receiving his third bouquet in as many days.

“Do you not like the flowers?” Merlin asks innocently. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer to this; even if he’d never admit to liking them, Arthur’s face lights up adorably whenever Merlin gives him flowers.

“I’m not a girl!” Arthur says, proving that Merlin is completely correct.

“See, that’s not a no,” Merlin says. “So I’m going to keep giving you flowers.”

They agree to keep it quiet that they’re dating, because they both think it would be strange to have the entire kingdom gossip about them. So, they don’t act very different in public – although their usual bickering and roughhousing take on a bit more of a flirtatious tone than in the past.

Most of their close friends figure it out, though – Gaius guesses from the way Merlin barely comes home now, and Gwen almost immediately starts teasing Merlin about how happy he looks these days. The knights probably notice from how Arthur now holds Merlin’s hand and cuddles him on overnight hunting trips. If they don’t notice from that, then they _definitely_ notice from how Gwaine starts making lewd jokes about them. Merlin’s glad they know – he’s too happy to keep it entirely to himself – and he thinks Arthur feels the same way.

After the initial glow of their new relationship wears off a little - which takes quite a while - Merlin will admit it’s not perfect. He’s still hiding a huge secret and very guilty about it, and Arthur’s still struggling to run a country that keeps jumping from disaster to disaster. But, at the end of the day, they come home to each other, and that’s more than enough for Merlin.

As happy as Merlin would be happy to spend all his time with his lover, he does actually have duties, some of which don’t revolve around Arthur. He keeps visiting Rue’s Village whenever he has time to spare. Even though it’s hard to drag himself away from Arthur, it _is_ good to see his village, to marvel at how much progress it’s made, and to visit with the villagers, many of which he’s now friends with. 

As time goes on, there’s less and less that Merlin needs to do for the village. The land only requires a few strong nudges from him to stay healthy. The villagers are much better off now, too, thanks to the plentiful harvest of that first year and the ones that come, so the small emergencies that Merlin used to be called in to fix are now often solved by the villagers themselves, with money instead of magic.

Each year, the villagers pay their taxes and each year, Merlin finds a way to invest them back into the village. Even that doesn’t take much of his time, because after the first couple years, Merlin ends up getting all but pushed out of the process: Mary holds a vote to elect a town council that determines how the taxes should be used and then presents Merlin with their decisions.

It’s technically rebellion, but Merlin politely ignores that, and instead spends his newfound free time encouraging the village children with their studies and helping out in the newly renovated and increasingly renowned local hospital.

Merlin’s enchantments around Camelot’s castle turn out to have been an excellent idea. They save Arthur multiple times, mostly inconspicuously – although he returns from one trip to Gaius’ judgmental eyebrows.

“While you were away, some gnomes broke into the castle and tried to kill Arthur, and the empty suits of armour along the corridors came to his defense. He’s very curious as to how that could have happened,” Gaius says, pointedly.

“So that spell worked?” Merlin asks, delighted, to Gaius’ disapproval. Merlin refuses to let Gaius’ caution dampen his enthusiasm – it had been a tricky spell, and Merlin’s proud of that idea.

Arthur seems to think the castle is a little bit haunted from then on – but he forgets his fears when Merlin cuddles him, so overall Merlin thinks it was a success.

Once the apprentices Merlin sent out into the world start coming back and practicing their trades from Rue’s Village as accomplished artisans, he starts collecting truly obscene amounts of gold at tax time. When he continues investing all the money back in the village instead of keeping it, the artisans start giving him presents like jewelled daggers and embroidered cloaks and fancy boots. It’s a little embarrassing.

“You’re the one who’s embarrassing,” Mary tells him. 

“Hey!” Merlin says weakly. Mary has absolutely no deference for Merlin anymore, but Merlin doesn’t exactly think he, of all people, can complain about that.

“Respectable people come from all over to visit our village and buy our things, and then they meet our lord, who’s wearing a patched shirt and this ragged piece of cloth? What even is this?”

“My scarf,” Merlin says mournfully.

“We’ll have Josie make you a _new_ scarf in time for your dinner with Lord Alfred,” Mary promises.

“I _like_ my scarf,” Merlin protests. “…And what dinner?”

“Oh, did you forget, my lord?” Mary asks innocently. “Tomorrow night, you invited him to dinner.”

“I definitely didn’t,” Merlin says, eying her suspiciously.

“Yes, I think you said it would be an excellent opportunity to for the village to get his custom. He has several daughters who are considered extremely fashionable, and it could bring us much more business if they were known to shop here.”

Merlin definitely didn’t say any of that. And besides, “Lord Alfred _hates_ me. He called me…” Merlin trails off. It was something along the lines of “a peasant and a whore pretending to be a lord,” but he doesn’t really want to say that in front of Mary.

She seems to get the idea anyways. “Well, then, won’t it be fun to watch him eat his words when he realizes you’re ten times richer than he is.” She pauses. “That means the scarf _definitely_ has to go.”

Despite his protests, Merlin somehow does end up dressed like a real lord and eating dinner with Lord Alfred and his family the next night. It’s not as terrible as he expected – Merlin gets quite a bit of vindictive pleasure from Lord Alfred falling all over himself to be polite to Merlin now that he’s realized how filthy rich Merlin’s lands are. Also, Mary was right – the girls can’t stop babbling about the amazing dresses and jewelry that they bought, and over the following few months, the village sees even more customers than usual.

That success means Mary keeps pulling her trick of inviting nobles to dinner on Merlin’s behalf, but the village is doing so well that Merlin doesn’t complain. Much.

Merlin leaves most of his new clothes in his wardrobe in Rue’s Village, since they’re not exactly necessary or practical for a servant, but he does wear his boots everywhere. They’re _really_ nice boots.

The first time he wears them in Camelot, Arthur asks, “Did you steal a pair of my boots?”

Merlin scoffs. “You don’t have boots this nice.”

Arthur doesn’t try to refute that, because it’s true. Instead, he argues, “You’re my servant and you can’t have nicer things than me.”

“You’re so spoiled,” Merlin says, unable to help that it comes out purely affectionate instead of scolding. He surveys his boots fondly. “I suppose I could get you a pair for your birthday.”

He had been planning on giving Arthur the jewelled dagger for his birthday – after all, what’s _Merlin_ going to do with a jewelled dagger, other than accidentally stab himself? – but that can wait for another occasion.

“You don’t need to give me anything,” Arthur says, and pulls Merlin in by the waist. “All the present I need is _you_.”

Merlin would mock Arthur’s sappiness, but Arthur kisses him, and he can’t mock and kiss back at the same time. 

Well, yet. He’ll keep working on it.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur wakes up to Merlin pulling away from him. He grumbles and tightens the arm he’s got around Merlin’s waist – Merlin’s not getting out of bed if he has anything to say about it.

Merlin laughs softly and tries to pry himself out of Arthur’s arms. “I’m riding out to my village today, remember?” he says. “And there’s a few errands I need to run first.”

“You still don’t need to get up _right now_ ,” Arthur says. He pulls Merlin closer and gives him a lingering kiss. “You could stay in bed for, say, another hour.”

“I’m not scandalizing George again,” Merlin says. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

Arthur grumbles, but lets Merlin go. After a moment of sulking, he decides it’s not long until he’d get up normally, and he’s got some reports he needs to read anyways, so he gets out of bed too and gets dressed alongside Merlin. (As he’s got the day off, Merlin refuses to be of any help, and just cackles as he watches Arthur struggle to tie his own laces.)

Arthur feels a familiar swell of pride as he sees Merlin when Merlin bids him farewell and heads out. It’s been over five years since he first gave Merlin the village, but Arthur’s still just as proud of him as he was back then. Merlin’s truly dedicated to taking care of his village, even though Rue’s Village will never amount to much. The only reason it was ever settled in the first place, Arthur’s heard, was a long line of sorcerer lords who’d made the land fertile enough to farm. Once the last of those lords had been killed in the purge, it had only taken a few years for everything to go back to its natural state, and profiting off the land had become pretty much impossible.

Given all of that, Merlin is doing better than anyone could have expected, and the villagers seem to appreciate him, if the state of Merlin’s boots is any indication. (Arthur’s _still_ jealous of those.)

Arthur sits down to his reports. He wishes Camelot could also be said to be doing better than expected, but… it’s not. He daily gets requests for aid from lords whose people don’t have enough to get through the winter, or from his knights for supplies, and Camelot’s coffers are nearly empty.

He loses himself in the difficult work of trying to stretch what few resources he has. He barely notices when George brings him breakfast and looks scandalized (despite Merlin and Arthur’s efforts) to find that Arthur has dressed himself. George putters around, tidying. There’s always a lot of tidying for him to do, because Merlin’s a _terrible_ servant, but after a while Arthur notices that he’s stuck around longer than he usually does, and he keeps hemming and hawing with increasing volume.

Arthur sighs internally. Like a proper servant, George never speaks unless spoken to, which Arthur always forgets, because he’s gotten far too used to Merlin’s lacking etiquette.

“Yes?” Arthur asks.

“My lord, I believe your council meeting is starting in just a few moments.”

Damn. Arthur drops what he’s reading and stands. “Thank you, George,” he says, and hurries out of his room.

Arthur walks quickly to the council chambers – not just to avoid being late, but because he hates walking down the hallway that’s lined with empty suits of armour. Ever since one of them jumped to life to save him from goblins, he’s been wary of them. He hasn’t seen any of them move since – or at least, not that he’s sure of – but still, once is one time to many for an empty suit of armour to move. He’d had Gaius look at them, to see if they were haunted or enchanted or something, but Gaius had said there was nothing to worry about.

So, Arthur’s glad to get out of the hall and into his council meeting, but that feeling doesn’t last long.

Arthur’s been in a lot of tense council sessions over the past few years, but this one is especially grim. The treasury is at an all-time low, due to a combination of strife and poverty left over from Uther’s harsher policies. They don’t have nearly enough gold to supply aid to the many outlying towns and villages that will desperately need it over the coming winter.

The round table is oppressively silent as everyone hopes _someone_ has a solution, but no one speaks.

Sir Wallace clears his throat; an extended procedure, as he’s about eighty years old. “Sire, I don’t mean to overstep,” he starts finally. 

Arthur waves him on; he’s willing to entertain any suggestions at the moment, and besides, Sir Wallace is _eighty_. King or not, Arthur really doesn’t feel he can tell him to mind his own business.

“You might consider a political marriage. There are many rich families in Camelot, merchants and lesser nobles, who would eagerly provide a large dowry in exchange for the status that comes with marrying into the royal family.”

That really wasn’t what Arthur was expecting to hear.

He’s been planning to marry for love – frankly, to marry _Merlin_ – for years now. The few times he contemplated political marriage, he couldn’t go through with it – it was too bleak a future.

And yet – for the rest of Camelot, the future is far bleaker if Arthur _doesn’t_ do this. The treasury is nearly empty. If he empties it helping the people through the winter, then what happens next time there’s a famine, or a plague, or an invasion?

He’s quiet for long enough that the rest of the council can tell he’s seriously thinking about it.

“Arthur, you don’t have to do that,” Gwaine says, leaning forward. “We can find another way.”

“It’s a good suggestion,” Arthur makes himself say. His voice sounds hollow. “The right sort of marriage could support Camelot for years to come.”

“There is still room for choice, sire,” Sir Wallace puts in, his creaking voice sympathetic. “There are at least a dozen eligible candidates in Camelot.”

Great. Twelve people for Arthur to choose from. It’s possible he’ll find someone tolerable, but he doubts it: he knows the kind of nobles who are rich enough, and he hates most of them; and anyways, _nobody_ would be tolerable next to Merlin.

“So, what, do we just send out invitations?” Gwaine asks sarcastically. “What do we write? _Bid on your king_?”

“I suppose we could invite them to a ball,” Sir Wallace says.

That starts a flurry of conversation around the table about who, exactly, ought to be invited, which is apparently a very fraught topic. Arthur leans back, trying not to listen to the discussion – it’s too surreal.

Gwaine leans across several knights – nearly lying in Percival’s lap – to talk to Arthur. “You can’t be _serious_ ,” he hisses. “What about _Merlin_?”

“Merlin understands that sometimes you need to do what’s right for your people, not what’s right for you,” Arthur says. 

But Gwaine _is_ right, he realizes – he does need to consider Merlin. Specifically, he needs to tell Merlin about this as soon as possible, before word starts getting around, because Merlin deserves to hear it from him. Merlin might still be around, running errands before he leaves on his trip.

Arthur stands, and everyone turns to look at him.

“A ball is fine,” he says. That’s a lie – it sounds like hell – but at least he’ll get this over with faster, instead of having to drag it out over individual meetings. “I’ll trust your preparations.”

Arthur searches for Merlin everywhere he can think of, but can’t find him. Eventually, he has to admit that it’s well into the afternoon now, and Merlin’s gone. Arthur sighs, retreats to his rooms in defeat, and hopes Merlin won’t be too hurt when he hears.

Gossip about the ball spreads through the castle and then the city while Merlin’s away, until Arthur’s pretty sure there’s nobody in Camelot who hasn’t heard about it. So, when Merlin returns, Arthur’s pretty sure he knows what Merlin’s answer will be when he asks hesitantly, “Have you heard about the ball?”

“I heard a few things,” Merlin says, with a sort of ironic smile that Arthur can’t really read.

“I want you to know I love you,” Arthur says, “And I’m so sorry, Merlin, but I have to do what’s best for Camelot. The treasury is really struggling – Camelot’s nearly _broke_. There isn’t another way – I have to marry. A political marriage – to someone really rich. I’m so sorry, Merlin. I would marry you if I could, but…”

“But Camelot has to come first,” Merlin says, nodding. He takes Arthur’s hand. “I understand, Arthur. I love you too. And I’m sure it will all work out for the best, somehow.”

Merlin doesn’t look as heartbroken as Arthur had expected. Arthur knows how much Merlin loves him, so he’s guessing Merlin doesn’t think he’s really going to go through with it – but Arthur needs to. It’s the only way to protect his people, so Arthur will do it.

He hopes it doesn’t ruin his friendship with Merlin when he does.

The ball approaches far too quickly, and then suddenly, it’s there. 

Merlin had asked for the night off, and Arthur had given it to him immediately, because it would be cruel to ask Merlin to _watch_ Arthur choose between his suitors. So, Merlin isn’t there to help him get ready, and he’s not there at the ball to serve wine and listen to Arthur whine about the ladies and a few lords who are here to vie for his hand.

Which is unfortunate, because Arthur has a lot to complain about. Sir Wallace, apparently (justifiably) doubtful of Arthur's dedication to memorizing the contents of his nobles’ coffers, sent his own servant to shadow Arthur and remind him how rich everyone was, and therefore who Arthur ought to consider marrying most strongly. Arthur had escaped his clutches, but then gotten trapped by Lady Caroline, who’s probably the richest heiress in Camelot, and has just _assumed_ that Arthur will choose her. She’s been clinging to his arm and trying to pick out their baby names for nearly half an hour now.

“My lady, excuse me,” he finally manages, when she takes a breath, “but I would be extremely rude if I didn’t greet my other guests.”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” she says, letting him go, “But hurry back!”

Arthur escapes as quickly as he can. Ugh. Lady Caroline is the _worst_.

“Lady Caroline is the _worst_ ,” says a cheerful voice to Arthur’s left.

Arthur turns, and is relieved to see Lady Laura. She smiles at him. She’d hated him when they were children; he can now admit that she probably had a point, because he remembers being extremely obnoxious to her. She likes him better now, because after Merlin gaped in horror at him calling her a cow, he’d apologized to her, and she – eventually – accepted.

Plus she tends to approve of the policies he implements. 

Arthur can’t actually agree aloud with her sentiments about Lady Caroline, because that would be extremely undiplomatic, but he says warmly, “It’s very nice to see you, my lady.”

“And you, sire,” she replies. “A lovely ball you’ve put on here.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says politely, even though he thinks it’s horrid and is pretty sure she agrees.

“You know,” she says, “I actually had a flawless plan to convince you to marry me.”

“Oh?” Arthur asks, intrigued.

He doesn’t particularly want to marry her, but out of all his prospects, she might be the best one.

“I was going to tell you my plans for eliminating poverty in Camelot, and promise to pretend not to notice your affair with your manservant if you pretended not to notice my affair with my maid.”

Arthur feels his eyebrows go up, of their own accord: it’s not exactly every day that he has sophisticated ladies like Lady Laura negotiating future extramarital affairs with him. Still, when he recovers from the shock… that sounds like a pretty good plan.

“Why do you say this _was_ your plan?” Arthur asks, trying not to sound too disappointed.

“Well, we can still do that if you like,” Lady Laura says. “But I’m guessing I’m not going to be your first choice for marriage.”

She nods gracefully over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur turns to look, and freezes.

There’s an absolutely gorgeous man in the entrance to the ballroom. He’s wearing an incredibly beautiful embroidered cloak over expensive clothes that fit him perfectly and make him look like an actual lord instead of a servant, and that’s Arthur’s excuse for not realizing it’s Merlin immediately.

His mouth falls open. Merlin is showing his invitation to the guard at the door. Arthur’s not sure whether to be thrilled – Merlin’s apparently, somehow, rich enough to save Camelot, and that means they can get married after all – or _furious_ – Merlin _didn’t tell him_ , and then chose to show up dramatically late.

“What a _prat_ ,” he mutters.

Lady Laura giggles.

Sir Wallace’s annoying servant reappears at Arthur’s elbow to say, “I see you’ve noticed Lord Merlin, sire. His land is the richest in the country - if he could just be convinced to actually keep his taxes this year, he’d be the richest person in this room.”

_Yeah_ , Arthur thinks. _An absolute prat._

Merlin looks around the ballroom and finds Arthur’s eyes. Arthur does his best to imply with his face that Merlin had better get over here, _right now._

Merlin smirks and starts lazily crossing towards him.

“Can I steal him away, my lady?” he asks Lady Laura politely.

“He’s all yours,” she says, patting Arthur on the arm and then taking her leave.

“May I have this dance, sire?” Merlin asks, offering his arm.

Instead of taking it, Arthur crosses his arms. “You’re an _ass_ ,” he says.

“Yeah, but you love me anyways,” Merlin says. He glances pointedly at his arm, still hovering.

Arthur takes it grudgingly.

When they’re dancing, Merlin’s lips just inches from Arthur’s ear, Merlin whispers, “So, you _do_ want to marry me, right? I don’t want to put any pressure on you.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Arthur snaps. “Of course we’re getting married, you absolute clotpole.”

Arthur’s opinion of the ball increases significantly once he gets to spend it dancing with Merlin, and showing him off to all the other lords and ladies in attendance. They all look varying degrees of sour about it, except for Lady Laura, who congratulates them heartily and somehow manages to use Arthur’s happiness to finagle a promise out of him that she’ll get a seat on his council.

When almost everyone has left, and the musicians are playing increasingly lethargically in an attempt to encourage the dancers to stop, Arthur murmurs in Merlin’s ear, “It’s getting late. Are you coming to bed?”

“Oh, no, sire,” Merlin says, in a decent impression of well-bred shock. “Before the wedding? That wouldn’t be at all proper!” 

Arthur steps on his toes. “Come _on_ , or I’ll marry Lady Laura instead.”

“Nah, I’m richer,” Merlin says.

“You are not,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes and refusing to acknowledge that Merlin basically is. He drags Merlin off to his bed.

"There's something I need to tell you," Merlin says, even though they’re in Arthur’s bed, they just got engaged, and there’s far better things he could be doing right now than talking.

"Mmm?" Arthur asks, lips on Merlin's neck, not really registering anything other than that Merlin is speaking completely coherently, which means Arthur needs to work harder.

"You should know, before you marry me."

Arthur frowns and moves back a little so he can meet Merlin's eyes. "Merlin," he says softly. "There is _nothing_ you could say that would change my mind."

"But," Merlin starts, and Arthur decides if he's going to try to argue nonsense, it's best for both of them if he shuts Merlin up.

Later that night, Arthur’s lying in bed with his arms around Merlin, and thinking about what he learned tonight: Merlin - _Merlin_ \- is basically the wealthiest person in Camelot. How did that even _happen_?

Arthur knows very well that Merlin wasn’t born into any sort of money, and wouldn’t have inherited any – so where did it come from? Rue’s Village barely produces _anything_ in taxes. Arthur would know – he’d looked after the place for years, and never gotten so much as a penny. The villagers are too poor to get the sort of training they’d need to move away from farming, and yet they can barely produce enough food from their farms to satisfy their own needs. The land is just too infertile, and has been ever since the line of sorcerers that ruled there was taken down – 

_Oh._

That _would_ make a lot of sense. Not just the money – the way odd things are always happening around Arthur. The many people who’ve attacked him, only to have the castle or the land rise up in defense of him. Those _suits of armour_. The many quests he’s gone on, only to wake up to Merlin telling him he miraculously succeeded against all odds.

He looks down at Merlin, cuddled in his arms and fast asleep. So, this is what a sorcerer looks like, then? He wonders when Merlin started the sorcery – how long has he been protecting Arthur? He’s been awfully squirrelly and suspicious since… actually, Arthur can’t think of a time when Merlin _hasn’t_ been that way.

Has Merlin just always had magic? Used it this whole time to keep everyone safe?

Lied about it this whole time?

Arthur wonders if anyone else knows and has been keeping this secret from him, too. He imagines Gaius does. The knights? Arthur’s confident they don’t _all_ know – Leon, for one, would’ve come forward – but he’s also aware that some of his knights, especially Gwaine, would think absolutely nothing of aiding and abetting Merlin in committing treason. Presumably, some of Merlin’s villagers also know – _someone_ must have noticed when he started turning lead into gold, or whatever he did to make the village so rich.

It’s a lot more treason than Arthur really wants to deal with in the middle of the night – especially because it’s _Merlin_. Arthur sighs. 

Merlin doesn’t wake up at the noise, but he does snuggle a little closer, as if to comfort Arthur.

Arthur squeezes him tighter. The one thing he does know is that he’s _not_ executing Merlin over this. It’s still Merlin, and Arthur still loves him.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, and goes to sleep.

Arthur’s not quite sure how to bring up the “so, you’re a sorcerer,” thing with Merlin. Even after a night’s sleep, he’s not really sure how he feels about it. It’s hard to be mad at him when, looking back, Arthur can think of many times when Merlin must have used magic to protect him and Camelot all this time - and yet, Merlin was also lying to him the whole time. Although, probably the reason Merlin was lying to him is that Arthur’s own laws said Arthur would cut off his head, which is admittedly a pretty good excuse. And Merlin might have been about to come clean - Arthur’s willing to bet that this was the thing Merlin wanted to tell him last night.

Arthur hasn’t worked out what to think - or say - by mid-afternoon, when there’s a knock on the door.

Merlin lets Gwen into Arthur’s chambers. She looks like she has something to say, but she just stands there wringing her hands instead.

Arthur raises his eyebrows at Merlin, but Merlin just shakes his head; he doesn’t know what she wants either.

“What is it?” Arthur asks. 

“Well, I’m not sure I should say,” Gwen says. “I don’t want to speak ill of a noble, sire.”

_This_ again.

“No, go ahead,” Arthur says. “You won’t be in any trouble.”

Merlin huffs. “Oh, I see how it is. You like Gwen better.”

Arthur ignores that and gestures for Gwen to speak.

“I was waiting on Lady Caroline this morning, and she’s _furious_ that you chose Merlin over her, and she’s planning to have him killed.”

Arthur notices that Merlin looks suspiciously unconcerned for someone whose life is being threatened. Arthur isn’t exactly worried either. He would have been yesterday, before he found out that Merlin was a powerful enough sorcerer to become the richest man in Camelot and to defend Arthur from hundreds of miles away. Now, he’s not really sure who _would_ be able to kill Merlin, but he very much doubts it’s anyone that Lady Caroline could hire.

So, Arthur shrugs carelessly, and says, “He’ll be fine.”

Merlin rounds on him, outraged. “That is _not_ how you’re supposed to respond to reports of your future husband’s impending assassination!”

“Congratulations on that, by the way,” Gwen says. “I’m thrilled for you both.”

“Thank you,” Merlin and Arthur both say, before returning to their argument.

“First of all,” Arthur says, “You’re not exactly one to talk about the correct response to reports of someone’s assassination -”

“Hey! Do you know how many times I ended up in the stocks for trying to warn your ungrateful ass?”

Arthur continues over him, loudly, “And _secondly_ , if you can enchant the castle to kill _my_ assassins, I’m sure you can make it kill yours too.”

There’s complete and _extremely_ satisfying silence. Merlin and Gwen are both gaping at him. Arthur feels very smug that he’s not _quite_ as unobservant as Merlin clearly thought he was, even if he really should have noticed Merlin doing magic around him _years_ ago.

“You _know_?” Merlin whispers, after a very long moment.

“Yes,” Arthur says, deciding not to mention how recently that became true.

“And - it’s okay? You’re not angry?” Merlin asks.

There are tears in Merlin’s eyes, and his lips are trembling like he’s about to cry. He looks so - so _hopeful_ , a little like that intense look he gets sometimes when he’s talking about how Arthur could change the world, except this time the world Merlin wants - the world Arthur told him he’d never have - is actually in reach. Arthur thinks back to all the times he’s told Merlin about how evil magic was, and it hurts to imagine how terrible and lonely that must have made Merlin feel. He suddenly isn’t mad at Merlin for the lying at all - he gets it, and he doesn’t want Merlin to feel like he has to lie ever again.

“No,” he says, striding over to hug Merlin, “I’m not angry.”

Merlin hugs back, practically clinging, and Arthur almost expects Merlin to start crying on him, but instead when Merlin lifts his head out of Arthur’s shoulder, he’s beaming. It’s the biggest smile Arthur’s seen on him in ages.

“I love you,” Merlin says.

“I love you, too,” Arthur says.

Arthur’s door shuts quietly - Gwen sneaking away - and they take full advantage of the privacy she’s afforded them.

A couple of black-clothed assassins sneak into Arthur’s rooms in the middle of the night. Arthur doesn’t bother going for his sword, because Merlin reaches out, his fingers outstretched, and his eyes glow gold in the dark.

The assassins collapse before getting anywhere near them.

It’s not as weird as Arthur expected to see Merlin do magic. The opposite, actually – Merlin casts the spell so naturally that it almost seems weirder that he’s never seen Merlin do magic before. 

Merlin, though, tenses a little and glances at Arthur for his reaction. Arthur was sleeping with his arm around Merlin’s waist and his head on Merlin’s shoulder, and he doesn’t move aside from squeezing Merlin a little.

He mumbles sleepily into the side of Merlin’s neck, “See? I knew you could handle it.”

Merlin lets out his breath, and Arthur hugs him a bit tighter.

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Merlin says. “You’re supposed to be concerned about my impending assassination regardless.”

“You’re never concerned about _mine_ ,” Arthur returns, turning his face a little more into Merlin’s skin to hide his smile. He’s glad Merlin feels comfortable and safe enough to debate the point with him – he doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if Merlin’s secret, significant as it was, changed the core of their relationship.

“People try to assassinate you all the time, though! This was only my…” Merlin pauses, and starts counting off his fingers.

Arthur lifts his head to watch. By the time Merlin’s put up four fingers, he’s had enough.

“You’ve had _four_ assassination attempts?” he demands, sitting up in bed. A nearly irresistible urge to grab his sword and go after whoever tried to hurt Merlin sweeps over him. “Who’s been trying to kill you?”

Merlin smiles smugly, obviously delighted to have gotten this reaction out of him. “There, see? That’s more like it.”

Arthur huffs and narrows his eyes at him. “You’re insufferable and I hope the next assassin succeeds.”

“Don’t forget you have to marry me for my money. Make sure it’s after the wedding,” Merlin says.

Arthur loses track of their argument then, because he’s too busy just staring down at the absolutely wondrous image of Merlin in his bed, smiling, completely happy and relaxed, and talking about their wedding. Arthur gets to _marry_ this man and wake up to him like this every day for the rest of their lives.

Merlin laughs as Arthur leans in to kiss him.

A few minutes later, there’s a groan. Arthur freezes, then turns and looks at where the assassins fell. One of them is stirring.

“Did you not kill them?” he demands.

“Um, no?” Merlin says, as if this should be obvious. “Using magic to kill people is illegal.”

“Using any kind of magic is illegal!”

“Oh, right,” Merlin says. He flicks his fingers, knocking the assassin back out, and says, “…Maybe you should change that rule.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Maybe I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There's now a tiny epilogue-y scene in the comments, if you're interested.


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